To the Pain
by Smeagol
Summary: How far can one bend before they break? The story of Arwen as a child. Disturbed and alone in the world, she attempts the ultimate solution...(Glorfindel would enjoy that)...
1. Default Chapter

Disclaimer: [Please insert disclaimer HERE] Sue me. (w-wait...I wasn't serious!!)  
  
  
  
To the Pain  
  
  
  
Note: "To the Pain" is a line from The Princess Bride. Throw that into the disclaimer.  
  
  
  
Note: This could easily be an original story, but the reasons why I chose for it not to be is because 1) It is easier for me to work with already made characters and places, and 2) People tend to read LOTR fan fictions more than they do original stories, because they are already familiar with the story.  
  
  
  
Note: (Yes, yet another note) I chose Arwen to star in this story because she fit the place just right. Personally, I do not like Arwen (*cough*hate*cough*), but, hey, maybe I'll get to like her. Arwen in this story is really young, and y human standards (what would the elf equivalent be?) Arwen is around 13. And this is quite off in LOTR history, but, heck.  
  
  
  
Chapter ONE: Taste of Life, Sip of Pain  
  
  
  
The barely audible sigh that escaped from Arwen's lips flew into the wind, which toyed with her dark, almost black hair, that spread around her face like a halo of darkness. Her cheeks were reed and flushed with the constant pound of the wind against her face, and her eyes were filled with sadness. She looked over the edge of the mountain trail, her feet teetering over the edge, and laughed, but not a happy laugh.  
  
  
  
As if by sudden instinct, she closed her eyes, and -jumped! It was a moment of freedom -she was flying, ignoring the consequences of what would happen when her flight came to an end. Freedom! And then she hit the ground.  
  
  
  
Her body felt numb, and she saw the ground getting stained with a liquid of crimson. Her blood. But she didn't mind the sharp, jagged rocks, which cut into her back, or the shattered bones that she had caused. She sat in numb relaxation while her life ebbed away...  
  
  
  
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*  
  
  
  
Elrohir whistled an Sindarin tune to himself, and nudged his horse a little farther on the trail. The horse whinnied, and Elrohir looked forward. There was something -someone, lying there. He dismounted, leaving his horse to wander and nibble on the grass, perhaps return to the stables, and went to see who it was, lying on the ground so peacefully.  
  
  
  
"Arwen!" he nearly shrieked, as he drew nearer. Was she dead? He wondered, mind racing. He bent down to her still form. She was lying there, eyes closed, with a peaceful smile on her face, her dark hair spread out around her. But her legs and arms stuck out at odd angles, and her skin was deathly pale, the ground being littered with her blood. He felt her pulse. There was none.  
  
  
  
"Arwen!" he said, yet again, shaking her violently, "Wake up!" Tears streamed down his face, and he was shaken with sobs. He felt her pulse once more, in a last ditch attempt. With a gasp of hope, he felt a soft, hardly noticeable pulse, but it was dying slowly. He wouldn't let his sister die here.  
  
  
  
Picking her up gently, he whistled to his horse, who had not wandered far, and mounted him to ride the short distance back down the trail to the Last Homely House.  
  
  
  
But he couldn't stop wondering about the peaceful smile on her face, and how in the world she had come to be lying there, half dead. Her smile was one of...relief...  
  
  
  
Sorru for the short chapter, but I don't yet know if anyone will like this story, and I wanted to leave a semi-cliffie so you will come back for more. Even if anyone does like it (which seems doubtful) Imay not be able to update until Friday, at the soonest. And if you think I am a disturbed person, maybe you are right. Darn, no "D" for disturbed in "IHP"... 


	2. Chapter 2

First of all, sorru (and that is not a spelling error, my word for "sorry" is "sorru") about the spelling errors in the last chapter. Second, the last chapter was the near end of my story. It starts off (by Balthasar's suggestion) with what would eventually come, and now we backtrack to what had happened to lead Arwen into such a state. And if you were unsure what was happening in the chapter, why Arwen would throw herself off a cliff, the reasons are mixed, interpret it yourself.  
  
StrWrsGrl9 - To the Pay? No, it isn't (aw c'mon, how stupid would THAT be? Westley isn't some money-obsessed person. . .I hope) No, but seriously, there's a book version, and while there is a chance I may have misheard the line (I tend to do that a LOT) the book reads "To the Pain". Or, for all I know, you were joking, but it didn't look like it. And because you seemed to know The Princess Bride well enough - Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya, you killed my father, prepare to die!  
  
Staran and Almare, thanks for reviewing, and I am continuing!! **cheers*  
  
  
  
Balthasar - Insane [please insert a synonym of the word "disturbed" beginning with H here] (How about hysterical, Smea? From, Balthasar) People? Summary: Once upon a time there was a disturbed little elf named Arwen. She married a (very, very attractive [another note from me, Balthasar]) greasy haired ranger and lived happily ever after. Don't ask. Must be the side effects of too much dark chocolate. . .  
  
Chapter TWO: Pain of Memory  
  
  
  
When she had first learned what being an elf meant, her brothers did not get the reaction they expected. Arwen broke down into tears, immediately. Only seven at the time, she was more mature than what anyone would expect. Not mature, rather, but more somber.  
  
Being immortal. The thought brought tears of pain and grief stinging to her eyes, which threatened to tumble out. It meant while her mortal friends died long before, her immortal life would continue. Only to meet more and lose them again, no company on her endless tour through life. Life? Or was this pain she was put through everyday to be called life? Her mind, still being born and developed had already understood the tastes of pain she would soon feel. The friends she would meet would die and drop like the leaves, and she would continue, until they became no more than a memory.  
  
As she walked through the dim hall, lit with a little bit of dawn hidden behind the heavy curtains, Arwen could feel tears still fresh on her face. She began to make her way outside, as she did every morning, and turned back to her room instead.  
  
She stopped before her desk, the room still dark as night, closed the door, and easily made a candle: With a swift motion, she took a sheet of wax from her desk, and rolled it around a wick, and alighted it, putting bits of scented wood in to give the room a more airy feel. By this light, she took out a small book, leather bound, with yellow, thin pages, cracked with time. As she fumbled through the pages, they slipped through her fingers, and she found herself looking at the inside cover.  
  
"To my wonderful, sweet daughter for you seventh birthday.  
  
This used to be mine, though I never wrote in it. But, when I decided I would, I thought mayhap it would be better in your hands. Enjoy it, and use it well.  
  
From your loving naneth."  
  
A tear fell onto the page, blurring to ink a little. Why? She had never seen orcs before, and she could not imagine why they would kill someone like her mother. What a selfish, childish thought. . .was her reply in her mind. Don't be a baby, orcs would kill anyone, one elf to them doesn't look different from another. It had only been a few months ago, and the memory was as fresh as morning dew in her mind.  
  
She bit her lip, which began bleeding slightly, and closed the book, sliding it back into her drawer. The candle she stared at warmed her face; the scented wax melting, and dripping onto her desk. She loved the flame, dancing playfully on the edge of a wick, always threatened by getting caught by a gust and thrown from its perch. She reached out a tentative finger, drawing closer to the merry dancer, the heat growing, but that didn't matter.  
  
A sudden gust threw the flame off its wick and it disappeared, wavering for a moment. Arwen turned around, to find her brother, sleepy and tired, leaning on the doorframe.  
  
"Aren't you usually outside at this time?" Elrohir yawned sleepily. Arwen shrugged. "'K, sorry to bother you then...I'm going to find Elladan." He said, slumping away, sleepily.  
  
Of her brothers, Arwen disliked Elrohir the most. Elladan she was okay with. The problem was, Elrohir was the stubborn, rebellious one, on the loud big mouthed side. Elladan on the other hand was much more quiet, timid, and could be coerced to do something more. It was true, she admired Elrohir more, but his company was not always pleasant, because the way he reacted to certain things, or the way he would argue a point, from whether it would rain, to the sky turning purple, until Arwen got too annoyed and stormed away.  
  
She sighed in annoyance. It wasn't unlike Elrohir to come barging in after all. She got up to close the door again, and decided to go into the gardens where Elrohir couldn't find her. She began following the path until she got deeper into the gardens - or forest, by this point, surrounding Rivendell, and began to leave the trail, looking for a place to simply think.  
  
//I wonder....//A thought crawled into her mind, unbidden, //...if mother ever expected it coming. Her immortal life suddenly cut short. She didn't appreciate life. No elves do. I hope I don't turn up like that. Damn, they learn they have an immortal life, and boom, they don't take care of each and everyday they live.// How she hated them! Her own father, he would always say "tomorrow" because he saw it coming, because he had one! He didn't live each day, because he knew there would be an infinite amount of days for him to live.  
  
The mortals though, loved life. They knew there may not be a tomorrow, as the immortals would have to learn, and they lived each day as thoroughly as they could. //And when we learn our lesson, it is too late by then. . .// she thought, grimly.  
  
She stopped by a waterfall she had learned to love, for it was unknown to the other residents of Rivendell. But the water there was always warm, tepid, heated by the sun. Behind the falls, there was a tiny cove, which she would sit and think, while the warm water would pour over her. She stripped off the dress that bound her, and snuggled into her little spot with a contented sigh, and fell into a dreamy doze. . .  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Well, this story isn't one of my action/adventure stories, so it may not be very good, and as Balthasar knows (Have you heard nothing Mr. Fitz has said? No one really knows anything! Heh heh, your dear friend, Balthasar), I am having a lot of trouble with character development and all that other stuff. And if you know me and couldn't tell, Elrohir was based off of the way I generally act. I can be quiet every once and a while though, that is, after someone finds the tape to stop me from arguing why the grass could technically be blue, and then mmmpphh. . . 


End file.
